Clubbin'
by abhorrent
Summary: Canada takes America clubbing. It'll be a fiasco our dear America will never forget. Rated M for theme.


_Hahaha.._

_haha.._

_ha._

_);  
_

* * *

To say that America was bored would have literally been an understatement. It was mid-winter and, of course, our beloved hero was trapped within the confines of his own home. Tony had long ago beaten the latest video game (subsequently breaking it in his excitement), and no good movies were out at the moment. It wasn't like he had any money, but..

America sighed, rolling out of his bed and landing haphazardly on his own two feet. Shivering as his body adjusted to the sudden lack of warmth, he stretched and yawned. Moving over to the nightstand, he snatched his glasses and gingerly moved them back into place. With yet another sigh, he trudged over to the phone, picking it up and scrolling through the contacts in a half-hearted attempt to develop plans.

"Hmm," the nation hummed, a soft monotone, as he skimmed through his contacts. "Artie? Nope. That dildo has 'higher priorities that fancying my every whim.' Whatever." He scrolled down, mentally checking off every possibility. Until, "Mattie!"

He chuckled and shook his head. Of course he had forgotten about his beloved twin, Canada. He could be such an airhead sometimes! Rolling his eyes, he quickly dialed the appropriate digits and paused as he heard the faint humming of the receiver. Then, suddenly, "Hello?"

"Hey'a, Matt! It's me, Alfred!" He grinned into his phone's keyboard, imagining that he and his brother could read facial expressions via the information highway. He heard a soft laugh from his brother, and a ruffle of hair that signaled a nod.

"I know, Al. What's up?"

America rolled back onto his bed, throwing his feet in the air and kicking aforementioned appendages around. "I'm _bored_, Mattie! Can I come over!?"

There was a short pause in which America thought that his brother had hung up on him. And, just as he was about to scream at what would have been an unperson, his brother made some sort of noncommittal noise. "I guess. I mean, I am going hunting tomorrow.."

"Hunting?!" America stood, and immediately rushed to get packed. "I'm in! We haven't hunted together in ages, Mattie!"

"I'm aware of that." His brother chuckled, and America beamed into the receiver. He then bent over to pick up several discarded pairs of socks up off the floor and throw them in his gym bag. "But, I should tell you that I'm going to go hunt-"

"Where is my jacket!" It wasn't a question, more so an exasperated statement; and America tore through the house in desperate search of his beloved plaid hunting jacket. Digging through a rather ominous pile of laundry, he emerged successful, grinning from ear to ear. "Found it!" He stepped out of the pile and adjusted his glasses. "Anyways, Mattie, I have to get ready. I'll call you in the morning!"

"But--"

"Bye!"

And with the click of a button, America got to packing.

* * *

By the time America packed and made arrangements and even arrived, it was well before the break of dawn. So, by the time he hitched a cab and made it to his brother's, it was early morning. And, America thought as he rubbed his hands in anticipation, that meant his brother would be making breakfast.

So, he leapt from the cab and sprinted toward his brother's house. Throwing open the door, and was greeted with the smell of pancakes. "Mattie, I'm home!"

He kicked off his boots and sauntered into the kitchen, where his brother was waiting with a humored glare. "I've been holding my breath in anticipation. And, this is my house!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." America waved him off and planted himself on a chair on the island. He rested his elbows on the counter-top, and batted his lashes. "I'm hungry."

Canada chuckled. "Well, that sucks for you."

America slammed his head against the marble. Repeatedly. "Mattie! I'm _starving_!"

"No," his brother chastised, as he revealed his mountain of deliciously golden pancackes, "starving is what you would call North Africa. You, on the other hand," he slapped at America's hands as they tried to seduce the first flapjack, "look like you could spare a few food items."

America sent his brother a stricken look. "You calling me fat?"

"Cat's out'ta the bag, brother."

"You're a real asshole, Mattie." America laughed, taking the opportunity to snatch three pancakes from the pile.

Canada laughed, and mimicked his twin's act. "I'd rather be an asshole, than a _fatass_."

"Ouch."

Canada stuck out his tongue, and then focused his attention of pouring a liberal amount of syrup on his breakfast treats. "Well, now that you've been officially burned, hurry up and put some cream on it."

America feigned a pained look. "You're killing me here, you bastard!"

"S'about time I kicked your ass." Both twins laughed at that statement, and they fell into a comfortable silence, both diligently making work of the stack o' jacks. And, fifteen minutes later, they accomplished the goal.

"Well," America sat back, smiling, "that was refreshing."

"Good, because we have a hike and a half ahead of us." Canada walked from the table, only to return moments later with a pair of ice shoes. "We're traveling into the vast unknown~"

America pretended to shake, hands going up in the air. "Oh no!"

"Oh yeah!" Matthew fist-pumped and bobbed his head. America held up his hands, mumbling something about the Kool-Aid man.

With that, they prepped and double-prepped, leaving the house by 6 on the dot. And, true to his word, Canada led America through the vast, unwavering tundra. America shievered out of sheer hatred of the cold.

"I shouldn't have come." The super nation whined to his brother, as he hugged the other nation's hockey stick to his chest. Why Canada was carrying around a hockey stick, he had not a clue. And, just was he was about to vocalize his question, all words stopped as he spotted something in the distance. Something cute, fuzzy, and otherwise overwhelmingly adorable.

"Oh, Mattie! Look at the cute baby seal!" America sprinted toward the tiny, unassuming creature, gushing and cooing all the while. "Hey there, little guy! It's mighty brave of you, you know, to run around out here all by your ones and twos!" He leaned over and patted its furry head softly. "Oh, you're so cute.."

He was so caught up in his preening of the mammal that he didn't hear the faint crunching of snow as footprints neared closer.

"..and look at those cute wittle eyes! I just want'a take you home and.."

He was too busy speaking to the creature in his baby-babble to realize that a familiar, now rather ominous, copper-tinted hockey stick had crept up into the air.

"..make you my new little pet. Oh, I know! I'll call you.."

He lost himself in his own mind, and didn't pick up the sadistic, malevolent smirk that had wormed its way onto familiar features.

"..Steve! Yeah! That's what I'll-"

What he didn't miss was the resounding crack of a skull as it gets beaten by a blunt object. And he definitely noticed the thick blotches of crimson that now stained his entire person. He let out a noise that faintly resembled something a choking baby would make, and turned around just in time to see his brother deal a second blow to the creature's head. Again, a sickening crunch, and this time America swore that Canada's hockey stick was then coated in brain matter.

"M, Matt.." Crunch. A sliver of crimson-slicked skull attached itself to the right lens of his glasses.

"Oh, oh, oh my god!" His brother's laughter, the thud of a stick, and the sound of boots stepping on spaghetti. _Imagine it's spaghetti. If you imagine it's spaghetti, everything will be okay. Spaghetti, spaghetti, spaghetti-_

"Aha! Another one!" He cracked open a lid, just in time to see the now-mutilated corpse of what-would-have-been-Steve get kicked several yards and hit the ground with a sickening thud, the ground itself quickly becoming saturated. Then he saw his brother's hunched shoulders turn forty-five degrees, and heard rich, resounding laughter. Canada leapt toward his beloved slaughtering stick and prowled in the direction of his nearest prey. Alfred had less time to blink before he witnessed yet another instance of cranial penetration.

Suddenly his stomach lurched, his innards twisted in dissonance, and his brain threatened to bleed through his eyes. However, he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed down his bile--opting instead to attempt to stand on suddenly weighted legs. His knees screamed in protest, and his hamstrings tightened in disapproval. But he had to save the seals!

He trekked at an ominous pace, the short distance seeming as it would lead on ad infinitum. And by the time he arrived at his brother's side, he noted, with infinite disdain, that as the snow lapped up the blood like a ravenous wolf, it began to turn an impressive tint. It was almost pleasant--_No_.

Shuddering, he turned to his brother, but not before realizing that there was yet another animal in the distance. He had to distract Canada! "M, Matthew?"

The manic look that graced his brother's movements before dissipated as America leaned bodily on Canada. "Yes, Al?"

The proud country then proceeded to sob in the manliest fashion possible. "I, I think I'm going to be sick." He moved to hold onto his brother, but was halted by a faint squish. Inhaling slowly, shakily, and hoping to all that was American that it _wasn't_ what he thought it was, he peeked under his boot. And, it was what he feared.

There, impaled on one of the spikes of his snow-boot, was what used to be an eyeball.

And with that, America promptly fainted.

* * *

_Never go clubbing with Canada._

_But the real moral of this story is: Don't eat the red snow. :|  
_


End file.
